Chapter 27
“Fish! Chip! Where are the royal mascots? We need them on the float now!” A frantic parade coordinator with a clipboard and a headset waves wildly from Huckleberry Lane, his voice barely rising over the marching band currently doing its best to drown out every rational thought I’ve ever had.
I glance at Detective Drake, popcorn still clinging to my hair like a crime scene garnish. “Apparently, dodging death doesn’t get me a hall pass from parade duty.”
Drake shakes his head, but a reluctant smile tugs at his lips. “Go on. We’ll finish this conversation later.” He gives me a small pat toward the parade route, his hand lingering on my shoulder a moment longer than strictly necessary.
I scoop up Fish and Chip and bolt toward the clipboard-wielding man who is now vibrating like a soda can about to explode.
The air smells like cinnamon, caramel apples, and a lawsuit waiting to happen, and that marching band is going full steam ahead as it does its best to take out every eardrum in Maine.
From apprehending criminals to riding a parade float, Fish muses. Now that’s a startling career pivot.
At least no one is throwing popcorn at us on this float, Chip points out. Unless they have really bad aim or unresolved snack-related trauma. Also, have I told you that I can catch popcorn midair? I basically double as the cleanup committee.
I spot Ree and Georgie near the staging area and grab them both by the elbows. “All aboard the mascot express! We’re on parade duty!”
But I’ll admit, my mind is still somewhere back there where Dexter was kissing me senseless. If that’s how he ends all of his cases, I might need to drum up a few more bodies. A heck of a lot more bodies for that matter.
“But we just witnessed an arrest!” Ree protests, even as her feet start moving toward the float.
“That’s theme park life for you, baby,” I pant. “Solve murders, wave to children, smile like your career depends on it—because it does. It’s in the job description somewhere between maintain safety standards and try not to die.”
The float before us is a masterpiece of fall-themed excess—a massive harvest number with an enormous maple tree centerpiece whose leaves are actual autumn foliage in blazing oranges and deep crimson reds.
Golden garlands drape from branch to branch, and at the base of the tree sit two miniature thrones upholstered in royal blue and pumpkin-orange velvet.
The tree is surrounded by oversized pumpkins, hay bales, and chrysanthemums the size of beach balls.
“You’ve got thirty seconds!” the coordinator shrieks like he’s about to combust.
We scramble aboard, flinging ourselves onto the float as it lurches into motion. I deposit Fish and Chip onto their velvet thrones with the elegance of a theme park manager hurling felines at a deadline.
Prepare the royal wave, Fish instructs, settling onto her blue velvet throne, looking every bit the queen she is. Not too enthusiastic—we’re monarchs, not game show contestants.
Can monarchs get paid in hot dogs? Chip inquires, positioning himself on his orange throne. I spy a hot dog vendor who looks susceptible to feline charm.
The parade lurches into motion, the band striking up a lively tune that seems to have been arranged specifically to be both festive and impossible to get out of your head.
Ree, Georgie, and I take our positions on the lower platform, waving to the surprisingly large crowd that has gathered despite—or perhaps because of—the afternoon’s excitement.
“Nothing like a little felony flavored drama to boost parade turnout,” Georgie chirps. “Let’s schedule one every Saturday. Think of the ticket sales!”
“No way. Let’s not turn murder into a marketing strategy,” Ree counters, despite the fact she looks thoughtful in the way that suggests she’s already running numbers in her head.
“However, I suppose we could add a true crime festival to the calendar. Murder and Mayhem Weekends has a nice ring to it.”
“You two are terrible.” I laugh, even though I’m already thinking about fall attendance projections myself.
What does it say about me that my first week of park management involved both a homicide and improved profit margins?
The parade winds its way through all ten Hollows of the park, the music changing slightly to match each themed area.
In Wild Adventures Hollow, the band adopts a jungle beat; in Galaxy Hollow, they switch to something vaguely futuristic.
And Fish and Chip remain impressively in character throughout, acknowledging their subjects with measured nods and the occasional benevolent paw wave.
Finally, after what feels like approximately seventeen miles of parade route, we circle back to the front gates, where I disembark with a bounce in my step and popcorn still in my bra.
I’ve just stepped off the float, collecting Fish and Chip in my arms, when two familiar voices cry out—
“Mom!”
I spin around. Two girls sprint toward me—Riley and McKenna—my nearly twin twenty-somethings with matching smiles and better fashion sense than I’ve ever had.
Both share my red hair and blue eyes, though Riley stands an inch taller and McKenna’s smile reveals a crooked lift she inherited from her father.
“Riley! McKenna?” I laugh as they collide with me in a group hug that nearly topples all of us. “What are you doing here?”
“We came to see Chip’s big debut!” Riley squeals, scooping him up. “Our grumpy little mascot!”
At last, recognition, Chip preens. Though I expected a crown and a fish-shaped cake.
“And we wanted to see Fish, too,” McKenna coos, offering the cute kitty an admiring scratch. “She’s a true queen.”
Flattery will get you everywhere, Fish coos right back. Especially if it comes with sardines.
“This is so awesome, Mom,” Riley goes on. “Everything is so great! The park looks amazing!”
The younger hoomans always did have better taste, Chip notes. Unlike their father, who once suggested I was just a cat. As if there could be such a thing as just a cat.
And speaking of demons summoned by name, Clyde strolls up in overpriced denim and emotional baggage.
“Well, well.” He smirks. “My ex, the theme park maven.”
“I prefer heroine of my own story,” I reply sweetly. “You were just a subplot.”
Riley and McKenna shoot their father identical warning looks, and he has the grace to look chastened.
“Okay, fine,” he admits, surveying the park with reluctant approval. “You’ve really turned this place around. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
From Clyde, that’s basically a standing ovation.
“I may as well go on a few rides while I’m here,” he adds with a frown.
“Us too!” the girls chime in. “We brought friends. We’ll catch up with you later, Mom!”
The girls bolt with friends in tow, and Clyde slinks off toward the smoked turkey leg stand.
Family reunions are exhausting, Chip meows. I need a nap and possibly therapy after that brief encounter.
You need therapy regardless, Fish retorts. Your attachment to bacon borders on an unhealthy obsession.
“Josie!” Georgie’s voice carries across the midway as she, Ree, and Bizzy converge on me. “Congratulations on catching your first killer!”
“My first?” I laugh. “Hopefully my last. I’d like to think murder isn’t going to become a regular feature of park management.”
“Knowing our luck, it’ll be a weekly occurrence,” Ree says darkly. “Like staff meetings, but with more corpses.”
“Bizzy is the expert in that field.” Georgie nods toward my friend. “How many have you caught now? Twelve? Fifteen? Fifty?”
“I don’t keep count,” Bizzy protests, though her expression suggests otherwise. “It’s not like I have a punch card—solve ten murders, get the eleventh free.”
Georgie’s attention suddenly shifts to a group of teenage boys attempting to sneak into the Gold Rush Hollow equipment shed with the stealth of elephants wearing tap shoes.
“Oh my! Those young men need proper guidance!” She launches herself toward them with surprising speed for a woman in a parade float hat, bellowing, “In my day, we trespassed with DIGNITY!”
Bizzy and Ree exchange alarmed glances.
“We better go stop her before she organizes them into an efficient breaking-and-entering unit,” Bizzy says with a resigned look that I’m pretty sure suggests she’s handled this situation before.
“Or worse, starts telling them about her fourth husband’s lockpicking techniques,” Ree adds with a shudder. And I get the feeling that Ree has heard a few stories from Georgie that she can’t unhear.
They dash off like first responders to a Georgie emergency, leaving me alone with the cats just as Detective Drake reappears, looking slightly less official with his tie loosened and his badge no longer prominently displayed, which makes him look more like a regular person and less like someone who could arrest me for jaywalking.
“Sorry if I overstepped my bounds earlier,” he says, referring to our kiss with a frown that makes him even more attractive, which should be illegal. “Heat of the moment and all that.” His lips twitch as if he were lying. And I so hope he is.
You better be sorry, Chip grumbles with the territorial instincts of an orange cat who’s just gotten comfortable with the current living arrangements. She just got rid of one hooman. We don’t need another one cluttering up our living space and eating our food.
Oh, relax, Fish scolds. You better get used to it. It happened to my hooman, too. There’s just something about solving murders that makes hoomans amorous. It’s some weird survival instinct, I suppose. ‘We didn’t die! Quick, let’s lock lips!’ Besides, this one might actually be trainable.
“I didn’t mind,” I tell Drake. “I even kind of liked it. In fact, I wholeheartedly approve of the overstepping. Feel free to overstep again at your earliest convenience.”
A smile twitches on his stubborn lips, softening the professional edges into something warmer that makes my knees forget how to function properly.